The Hell Woods
by laughandlove
Summary: Sam and Dean stumble across a case involving gruesome deaths...people are being murdered with chainsaws in Colorado woods. Upon investigating, the hunters just may become the hunted. Will they make it out of the dark woods alive? Hurt!boys... ON HOLD.
1. Chapter 1

**So here's my next story attempt – I hope it's not too completely awful, it was just some random idea that popped into mind. Angst is to follow in buckets in further chapters, just so you know. Scenes in the woods with chainsaws are pretty much guaranteed for our boys. So please read and review! This is more of an introduction, it will get better. I hope.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned them, I wouldn't be sitting here alone in the middle of the night typing on my computer.**

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_PROLOGUE_

Riley stumbled through the dense weeds and underbrush, wincing repeatedly as long tendrils of sharp pine nipped at her flesh. The branches in her path were like fingers, reaching across the dusty dirt trail in which she traveled to purposely impede her progress. Night lay a blanket of dark black on the forest, with such darkness coming a biting cold. Sweat, however, laid in a sheen on top of her skin, pearly in the scarce moonlight – the result of the all-consuming fear that was currently gripping her soul. It was the fear that drove her, the fear that kept her running. It had to be, as she didn't think her body was in any sort of physical shape to sustain the intense workout she was submitting it to. Cuts and bruises displayed their prevalence across her arms, legs, and face – she could feel sticky, warm blood steadily making its way down her forehead. Her ankle was undoubtedly sprained, a particularly twisted vine had caused her to trip about a mile back. She supposed it was a mile, at least...since...since HE had showed up.

The sound of a chainsaw had been her first inkling as to the presence of something not so kind in nature at the campsite. She had felt unsteady all night, tossing and turning within the tight confines of the fleece sleeping bag. She first heard rustling, as if leaves were being brushed aside.

Matt had told her it was the wind.

Then she had heard footsteps, slowly making their way toward the tent.

Matt had told her it was a raccoon, scouring for scraps of food.

Then she saw fleeting shadows of a crouched figure, hurrying past the thin plastic barrier that separated her from nature.

And that's when Matt had gone outside, always the protective boyfriend.

And that's also when the chainsaw sounded, the screaming began, and she bolted – quickly unzipping the flap that closed the vinyl structure and running for her life.

She passed by what was unmistakably Matt's body, strewn in pieces across the damp soil and seeping rivulets of blood. She quickly clenched both hands across her mouth to stop herself from screaming; momentarily paralyzed by sheer devastation at her loss and terror at the situation. A coldness entered into her system, originating at her heart and then pumping to her extremities. It was a frigid, overpowering feeling – resultant of grief, a way that her body chose to cope with such a forceful blow.

It numbed her, spurred her into running when she thought she was too stricken with terror to move. The will to live always overrides any extenuating circumstances, and the body will to anything to hold onto precious life.

She began sprinting, gasping – whipping her head back to view the scene one final time upon exiting. There was no sign of the chainsaw murderer, no figure in the distance and no discarded weapon lying on the ground. Nor, she remembered with a start, were there any footprints in the wet and pliable soil at the campsite.

_No footprints._

For a split second, her rational side pestered her mind, throwing questions at her brain. _Who was this? What was this? How had they left so quickly?_

Fear then subsequently regained control over her mindset. There was no time for consideration as to what had happened, only time to run from whoever – or _what_ever – it was that had done it. Only time to save herself.

Riley stopped suddenly as she came to a barrier in her path. It was a fallen tree, its height accounting for a full half of her own...and its length quickly ruling out the possibility of simply walking around the thing.

She stopped reluctantly, resting her hands upon the rough bark atop the massive log and breathing rapidly. Harsh wheezes made their way from her mouth, her ribs rattling with each soul-sucking breath. It seemed that stopping after such a period of blind running ceased the cold adrenaline coursing through her veins. For the first time, the tears came. And once they started, they wouldn't stop.

"Matt," she whispered silently. Saying his name sent her into a new fit of hysterics. She knew she should be continuing on, she knew she should just climb over this damned tree and run for her life. There was someone or something with a chainsaw out there, after all...but he wasn't fully real to her. She hadn't seen him, but she had seen her dead boyfriend laid in pieces at her feet. And that, _that_ was what seemed real to her right now.

She knelt on her feet, resting her forehead against the side of the fallen tree and trying to summon the inner strength it would take for her to reach the other side of the obstacle.

She breathed slowly and steadily, trying to calm herself.

"You can do this, Riley," she repeated to herself. "Matt would want you to."

"I'M SURE HE WOULD, MY DEAR." A deep, echoing voice suddenly entered into her consciousness.

Terror struck Riley in that moment. She slowly raised her head, only to be greeted with the piercing stare of two gray, steely eyes – the only features that stood out in the black silhouette of the man that stood before her.

She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing but stuttering came from her lips. She backed away slowly, paralyzed again by an extraordinary fear.

The man raised a chainsaw in his hand, powering the machine and piercing the deafening silence of night with the whirring chain. Riley glanced suddenly to the side of the tree, starting as she realized that it had been cut cleanly down the middle – not stricken by a natural force.

It had all been a trap.

The man walked through the log – walked clean through it – and raised his deadly weapon in the air, above the cowering body of the terrified woman.

"TOO BAD YOU AREN'T MAKING IT OUT OF HERE."

Blood-curdling screams echoed that night through the woods, unheard by anyone except but by something not entirely human.

**oo00O00oo**

"Oh, man..."

"What, dude? You look like you're watching a frog being dissected. It's kinda making me lose my appetite, actually."

Sam leaned back in the pleather booth of Roy's diner, answering Dean's question by sliding across the front page of the Colorado newspaper he was reading.

"Read that."

Dean shot Sam a confused look. "Find a case?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You tell me. Just read it."

Dean grabbed the newsprint, skimming quickly over the article Sam had pointed out. He winced first, then grimaced, then stopped reading altogether and pushed the article away.

"That's just wrong. It's like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre on acid, man."

"I know. But this is even weirder, dude. There's no evidence that a murderer was even present at the scene. The article makes it seem like the murderer was just really good at covering his trail or something, but it just rained - how did he cover his footprints, how did he not leave muddy fingerprints on the bodies? Discarded gloves? A weapon? A motive?"

"Yeah, not quite getting that part either. The bodies were just left there, right? They weren't even moved. Just...butchered...and cut in pieces with a chainsaw. Man, at least the Texas Chainsaw dude used the people for something. This 'no motive' thing doesn't really seem right."

"And using people for their skin does seem right?" asked Sam.

"Different strokes for different folks," shrugged Dean. "Dude was ugly, man. That probably sucked some big ass. Not that I'd know what that's like. What IS it like, Sam-o?

"Not even going to justify that with an answer, Dean. Be serious! You think this is a case?"

"Let's see...chainsaw murder in the woods, two dead, no evidence...yep, that's a case all right."

"We should check into the history of these woods. For all we know, this happens regularly or something. Could clue us into what this is about."

"Remind me never to live in the woods, ever," said Dean. "I mean, just in the past couple of years, we've had the pleasure of meeting a Wendigo, an insane family of inbred human-hunters, and a friggin' pack of vampires...just in the woods..."

"Yeah, well. Comes with the job." Sam paused, suddenly aware that Dean had shifted focus from himself to a presence over his shoulder, a sheepish grin now on his face. Sam turned to look behind him, met with the sight of their 16-year old waitress. Her mouth was slightly open, her pen raised shakily over her pink notepad.

"C-Can I t-take your o-order?" she stuttered.

Sam smiled uncomfortably. "How long have you been there...er, Rachel?" he asked sweetly, quickly reading her nametag.

"Just a little while," she whispered. Sam took in the sight of her wide, blue eyes, her blonde hair pulled back in pink clips, and the glitter nail polish on her nails. The poor girl was probably freaked out to all hell. And he had no idea what to say.

Sam exaggerated his tight lipped grin, nodding slowly and glancing over at a somewhat stunned Dean. Taking the hint, Dean switched on his 'charming' mode.

"Sorry, we must sound weird, huh?" he said, forcing a laugh. "We get that a lot, actually. See, we're, uh, cops. And we're just looking into a new case, that's all."

"V-vampires?" whispered Rachel, almost inaudibly.

"Er, yeah. That's our, uh, code word. We get bored with just saying 'serial killer', you know? And since vampires, well, are...supposed to go from one victim to the other, the code name fits. Get it? 'Cause serial killers go from one to the other...and, uh, Wendigo is another, er, mythical creature. It has sharp claws, right? So that's kinda like a murderer that stabs their victims. Another code word."

Dean finished his explanation, leaning back and looking pretty pleased with himself. Rachel turned to look at Sam, as if waiting to see whether or not he would choose to justify Dean's outlandish claim.

"Is that...?" she started.

"-Yep," continued Sam. "All true."

Rachel smiled, looking back at Dean now with an expression that could only be described as reverence. "Wow," she said. "You must see a lot of interesting things in your job. I don't think I could ever be that brave."

Dean displayed his biggest, cocky grin. "Yeah, well, people need saving. It's totally worth it, in the end. Sure, it's scary sometimes. But you just have to push through."

Sam sat and rolled his eyes, unnoticed by either Dean or Rachel. Dean was milking this situation for all it was worth.

"That's so noble," she continued, now visibly fluttering her eyelashes.

"I do try and stay noble, but I don't do it for the praise," said Dean, raising up his arms. "Not that I don't appreciate it when it comes from a pretty girl like you."

Rachel blushed furiously. "Thank you," she whispered.

Sam held his face in his hands. Dean was such an ass. After a few seconds of silence in which he imagined Rachel was staring unabashedly at his brother, Sam rose his head and looked at her.

"So, I think I'm ready to order. How about you, Dean?"

"Wha? Oh. Yeah. Sure."

"O-Okay," answered Rachel, clicking her pen and prying her eyes away from Dean. "What'll it be?"

After both Sam and Dean gave their orders and their young waitress walked away, Sam kicked Dean under the table.

"Dude! What the hell?"

"Uh, hello? What was that all about?"

"What was _what_ all about, Sammy?"

"The whole 'flirting with the underage waitress' thing. Not to mention that little story about the code words."

"She totally bought that, Sam. And she is NOT that underage."

"Dean, she's like 16 years old. She had a backpack with her, by the counter over there. See? There's an 11th grade English book in it."

The eldest Winchester looked in the direction in which Sam was pointing and shrugged. "So? No harm done. She was just infatuated by my good looks, now there's no suspicion on us. It all worked out."

"Sure, it all works out until she starts talking about the guy she just met to her friends over there, telling them that you flirted with her. Then they'll just call you a cradle-robber."

"Don't get your boxers in a twist, Sammy. It was a tight spot. Plus, cradle-robber goes nicely with charges of grave-desecrater, murderer, credit card fraud, and bank robbery. If I'm going down, it'll be in style. Plus, it isn't like I'd friggin' jump her bones, Sammy. I'm not a pervert."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm telling the story next time, okay?"

"Fine, bitch."

"Jerk."

A few minutes later, Rachel returned with their orders...and Dean winked at her as she walked away.

"Dean!" hissed Sam.

"What?"

**oo00O00oo**

"Names of the deceased, Riley Taylor Hawkin, age 24; Matthew Ryan Adams, age 26." The coroner's voice resonated off of the white walls of the Benson County, Colorado Morgue, destined to reach the ears of two whom he believed to be FBI investigators.

"And the remains of the departed?" asked Sam politely. "How much of the bodies were actually left after the attack?"

The coroner's face grew grim. He didn't answer Sam's inquiry verbally, but as a response pulled open to drawers from the wall, revealing that each compartment held a large plastic box.

"Both victims were...chopped...in the same pattern," he said somewhat shakily. Arms, legs, both removed – laid out next to the body, though, not in another area. After being deprived of their limbs, it seems that they were both consequently cut in half. That was the cause of death, actually – seems they were both alive up until that point."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Dean under his breath. Sam winced, then focused his gaze on the boxes. "If you don't mind, doctor, my partner and I would like to take a moment to examine the remains."

"Of course," said the man hastily. "I'm always glad to be of help." He nodded to the brothers, then exited – somewhat quickly – from the morgue.

"This is going to be pleasant," said Dean.

"You do it," insisted Sam.

"What? Why?"

"Because I did it last time, remember? The disembodied head?"

"Crap," cursed Dean.

"It's only fair, and you know it."

"You sound like a two-year old."

"I don't care. You're doing it."

"Sammy..." Dean's glare was murderous.

But Sam's was harder. And damnit if Dean just couldn't give into the kid.

"Fine." Dean hesitatingly pried the plastic lid of the first box, labeled with the name of the girl victim. The coppery scent of blood immediately entered the air, filling both boys' nostrils.

Dean looked repugnant. "Do we really have to do this, Sam? We already know what we're gonna find. Chopped up bodies."

Sam, for a moment, looked like he was going to give in. But only momentarily.

"Maybe," he insisted. "But maybe not."

Dean sighed. "Persistent bastard," he muttered. Reluctantly, Dean peered into the contents of the container.

"So?"

"So what?" answered Dean.

"What do you see?"

"Er, I see blood. Happy? And that's about it."

"No, no. There has to be more." Sam walked over next to Dean, who then threw his hands in the air and walked away.

"Why couldn't you've just done it in the first place, then?"

Sam didn't answer, but continued to stare at something apparently interesting on the body.

"What? Have a new interest in mutilated corpses? What in hell is so damn interesting, Sammy?" Dean spun back around to face his brother, his frustration quickly dissipating upon seeing what Sam held on the tip of his latex glove.

Sulfur.

**TBC**

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**Please review! Again, I'm giving my puppy-dog eyes...it worked once, I'm not hesitating to try it again! The story will soon deepen, and I promise angst and scenes in the woods are to come later on...is that incentive enough? Although, yes, it WILL likely be a long update - I work every day during the weekends. It's midnight now, my only free time! But I probably DO need sleep...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Here's the next chapter – I know it's been a super-long update, and I'm really sorry. I worked every day this weekend and last...and last...! and had a ton of homework. (AP Calculus, anyone? With a bit of AP Spanish and AP Literature and Composition thrown in on the side?) Jeez, I can't wait for college. Not that it's going to be any easier...why in hell did I choose an honors university? I hate work. Drat. Whoa, got a bit off-topic. Back to the story! Oh, and I really want to say thanks to all those reviewers out there – you're what keeps me going! Thanks y'all!**

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Sam stared at the tip of his glove, scrutinizing the fine, powdery substance he had extracted from the swollen rims of the gashes on the victim. Though obviously stained with blood, the identity of the mineral in question was undeniable: sulfur. Yep, definitely sulfur. Sulfur tinted dark red and coated with various bodily fluids, but sulfur nonetheless. Sam recognized the familiar texture of the mark of a demon by the way it felt between his fingers. A fleeting memory of Ava came to mind, and the horrific night that he and Dean had discovered her bloody fiancé, a discarded wedding ring, and a windowsill coated with the very element that now rested on his glove.

"Well, that might complicate things," said Dean from across the room.

"Ya think?" answered Sam with incredulity. "Dude, what the hell kind of demon gets off murdering people with chainsaws? We've never come across anything like that, ever."

Dean shrugged. "A pissed off one?" he tried.

Sam raised his hands in the air. "Not really what I meant."

"No, man, I'm serious. He has to be friggin' pissed at someone, if the mere ability to gouge out people's insides and pin them to walls didn't satisfy him enough. Think about it, dude. That bitch is definitely trying to get back at someone, that's for sure."

"Yeah, but who? These people were just two randoms. Campers who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Dean. Why would some almighty Demon choose to kill these people?"

"What, am I supposed to be some sort of all-knowing oracle now on all things demonic? Sam, I have no clue in hell, ok? Dean looked around his surroundings uncomfortably. "But I do know we probably shouldn't talk about demons and crap here."

"What? Why?" Sam actually looked surprised at Dean's assertion, something that amused the older brother. Sammy was so immersed in his tirade on demons that he was completely oblivious to the obvious.

Dean stared with mouth agape at his younger sibling. "Uh, first of all, we're in a MORGUE, dude. That should be enough in and within itself. Second of all, Dr. Whoever is going to walk in any second and see you with your fingers all up in the gaping wounds of the victim, which might be hard to explain. And third of all, if he hears anything we're saying we're both going to wind up in adjoining rooms in a mental institution, okay?"

Sam nodded slightly, but his eyes remained misted over, as if he were still lost in thought. "Maybe there's different types of demons we don't know about," he continued, pacing around the room. "Like, ones that dwell in one specific area or something. These woods? Maybe they're like portal to the demonic world. When they escape from hell, they come up somewhere, right? There's always been lore about specific areas being particularly active in certain areas, even of one specific point being the link to the supernatural world. We've seen it a million times...I mean, usually with malevolent spirits, but maybe this spirit is evil to the point of almost being demonic, like he had a stay in hell and went dark side. Not a full demon, but a spirit who escaped with enough power to act like one. Could explain the way the murders were carried out; they're much of the 'vengeful spirit' type than anything."

Unnoticed by Sam, Dean had taken a seat during his younger brother's lengthy speech by the small, metal table in the morgue. His head was rested in his hands, shaking noticeably from side to side.

Sam had finished by this point, hands on his hips and nodding almost to reassure himself of his theories. He turned to face his brother, slight grin slowly fading upon seeing Dean's position.

"Dean? Dude, did you just hear anything I said?"

Dean raised his head, a groggy look on his face. "Uh, did you hear anything I said, Sam, before you went off on that oh-so-fascinating tangent of yours? I mean, sure it was riveting and everything, but I feel sort of dissed."

Sam shrugged. "Guess I just got into it or something." He started pacing around the small white room, hands on his hips and face pointed towards the ceiling.

Dean recognized the behavior. Sam was STILL thinking about this. He watched his little brother in mild interest, waiting to see how long it would take for Sam to say something that would verify his hunch.

It was about ten seconds, if that, before Sam spun back around to face Dean. "So what do you think about this?"

"Dude, I already told you what I thought."

Sam just looked at him blankly.

Dean sighed. "Jesus Christ Sammy, never mind. 'Lets leave' basically just wraps it up."

Sam nodded. "To do more research?"

"No, man, to friggin' visit these badass woods."

**oo00O00oo**

The Impala's engine roared to a screechy halt as Dean parked the car. They were in a gravelly parking lot situated just outside of the woods, an area originally destined as a site for prospective hikers and campers – the wooden sign marking the beginning of the trail still stood outside the entrance.

It would've been peaceful, if bright yellow tape displaying the words 'Crime Scene' weren't wrapped around the perimeter...and if a small sign alerting all comers as to the recent violent murders in the area wasn't situated directly in front of the trail entrance.

"Guess it'll be pretty empty in here," commented Dean with a grin, "seeing as all the little tree-huggers have probably chosen a less bloody place to enjoy the wonders of nature."

"Guess so," agreed Sam. He couldn't help but let a smile slip in response to Dean's comment. It seemed his older brother was never at a loss for words.

The two hunters made their way to the trunk of their treasured vehicle, opening the lid and peering into the arsenal that was kept in the interior.

"So what's your weapon of choice, Dean?" Sam was carefully inspecting the line of weapons, mentally deciding which would be better suited for their case. _Crossbow? Nah. Flame thrower? Maybe. The Glock? Perhaps. Rifle loaded with rock salt? Definitely_. Sam grabbed the gun he had chosen, turning to face Dean.

Dean hadn't yet looked up from the trunk. "Take this," he said, blindly holding out a hand in Sam's direction.

"Holy water?"

"Yep."

"Okay, I guess that-"

"-And this." Dean was holding out a flamethrower now. The same one Sam had already decided against.

"Dean, do you really think-"

"-And that." It was the Glock.

"I don't know if that's really-"

"-And this." A crossbow.

"Done yet? I'm not sure I can hold any more."

"Who said you got all the weapons, Sammy? I'm taking a few of those, ya know." Dean had finally pried his focus from the arsenal and onto Sam, hands out. "I was just telling you to hold them, dude."

"You don't think this is a little much? We're just scoping the area, seeing what we're dealing with." Sam shifted uncomfortably. "We're not prepared for a full-blown hunt, Dean."

"Always come prepared, Sammy. There's a lot of crap in the woods. Maybe we'll even meet a clown, then I'll bet you'll be glad you have the flamethrower." He raised his eyebrows, waiting to get a rise out of Sam. "Am I right?"

Sam just huffed, shouldering his gun and walking towards the entrance.

But Dean never was one for giving up. "I said, am I right? Huh? Huh?"

"Shut up."

**oo00O00oo**

"Dude, I hate nature," Dean was panting as he walked, following slightly behind Sam. They had already been hiking for a couple of hours, and had yet to even find the crime scene.

"Yeah, I think you've made that pretty clear, man," Sam barely concealed a grin. Dean had been complaining the entire time they had been in the woods.

"Who the hell walks out this far to go camping? Who even GOES camping to begin with?"

Sam remained silent, quickening his pace as a clearing came into view. It was definitely the type of clearing campers singled out...

"Sam!" Dean groaned as his little brother disappeared from his sight around a bend. He bent over, one hand waving in the air. "It's all right, Sammy, I'll catch up. You just go ahead."

Upon not receiving an answer from his brother, Dean grimaced. He was going to have to hustle now, Sam had most likely forgotten he was even there.

It was muddy.

Insects seemed to think he was a buffet.

There were rocks in his shoes.

And it was HOT. Goddamned HOT.

But shorts...shorts weren't an option. Shorts and Dean Winchester just didn't mix.

The woods friggin' sucked.

Dean slowly but surely made his way to the clearing Sam had sprinted off to, and in what seemed like an hour the area came into his vision...and so did Sam.

"Sammy! Is it 'ignore and ditch Dean day' or something?" Dean quickened his pace as he walked. "I mean, you left me in the middle of the woods during a hunt. I could've-"

_Plop._

A root had conveniently been lying in Dean's path, unnoticed by the eldest Winchester. A root that – even more conveniently – was right in front of a mud puddle.

Sam whirled around just in time to see Dean fall spectacularly on his face, splashing fresh mud into the air.

Sam began laughing hysterically, holding his side and pointing down at his brother. Dean raised his head dejectedly, slapping the mud with anger.

"Son of a BITCH!"

Sam went into a new fit of laughter.

"Stop laughing Sammy, or I swear..." Dean slowly stood, placing his hands on his knees for balance as he regained his footing.

"Swear what? To get me muddy?"

Dean turned to face Sam, shooting him a death glare. "NO," he asserted, "I swear to make you regret it."

Sam feigned a look of fear, eyes widening. "Oooh, you'll make me regret it. I'm scared now!"

"Shut it, dude. Seriously." Dean was gradually losing interest in bickering with Sam, starting to take notice of just how soiled his clothes had become. Disgusted, he raised two completely muddy arms, wincing as the brown substance dripped slowly from his jacket and onto the forest floor.

"This better not ruin the leather," he said.

Sam started laughing again.

"Dude. What the hell? You're like some snot-nosed little kid sometimes, I swear. The laughing's getting a little old." Dean looked at Sam expectantly, awaiting an explanation.

"Ahhh," breathed Sam as the last laugh left his lungs, "just remembering the last time you got covered in mud and I didn't. Fell off a bridge that time, didn't you?"

"I didn't FALL off the bridge, man, I was forced off by some ghost bitch driving my friggin' car!"

"Yeah, whatever. You still looked like the swamp monster."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Let it go. We're on a HUNT here. I don't want to get carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey standing like an idiot in the middle of a murder scene."

Looking around at the abandoned campsite, he turned back to a still smiling Sam. "And this WAS the murder scene, right?"

"Uh, yeah. The bright yellow tape around the whole area kinda clued me in." He pointed down at Dean's feet, boots still entrenched in the mud. "You sorta...fell over that part of it."

Dean looked down to where Sam was looking. Sure enough, something bright yellow was wrapped around his feet, with two ends that raised above the mud puddle and continued in a circle around the surrounding trees.

"Oh."

"Yeah," said Sam, visibly trying for Dean's sake to stop grinning.

"So," continued Dean, shifting in his spot, "find anything else while I was still trekking through the underbrush?"

"Yeah," said Sam, walking as he talked to the center of the clearing. "The first body was found here, which is right in front of where the tent was." He knelt down, pointing to the white crime scene outline that indicated the corpse's position. "See? You can see the stake marks where the tent was set up. The guy must've just gone outside to see what a noise was or something...he barely made it out before he was attacked."

Dean grimaced as he gently touched the soil indented by the weight the body had had on the earth. "There's still blood mixed in here," he noted.

Sam sighed. "Imagine that poor girl finding her boyfriend...after hearing him being murdered..."

Dean shook his head, standing up and glancing around. "So how far did she get before..." Dean faded off, unwilling to say, 'before she was killed, too.'

"...I don't know," Sam answered for him. "The article just said she was found a little deeper in the woods." He pointed to a nearby trail leading into the dense trees, stemming from the clearing. "There's tape lining that trail," he observed. "I'm guessing we follow that, we'll see."

"Just great," said Dean bitterly. "More hiking."

**oo00O00oo**

A mile and a few groans and protests from Dean later, the boys found themselves at the next white crime scene outline – right before a randomly fallen tree laying in front of the trail.

"Guess she stopped here," said Dean. "That's one mondo-ass tree. Lucky for Chainsaw Demon it just happened to be there, huh? I mean, he could've chased her a while longer."

Sam wasn't as convinced as Dean. "No," he said softly, almost to himself. "That's...that's not right. This tree was healthy, not dead...so it wouldn't have been cut down by the park service. And it wasn't hit by lightning, the cut's too clean..."

"Sooo...? What are you saying here, Sammy?" Dean looked at Sam with curiosity, watching as his younger brother knelt a the helm of the trunk. Sam was rubbing his hand over the cut line in the wood.

"Dude, stop caressing the tree."

Sam looked up at Dean, face briefly flashing in anger. "I'm not 'caressing the tree.' There's sulfur all over this thing, man. I don't think the demon was chasing this girl at all, I think he TRAPPED her."

Before Dean could reply, the distinct roar of a chainsaw drowned out their senses.

**TBC**

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**Please, please review! I'm reinstating the puppy-dog eyes!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Ahem...yeah...erm...I really have no excuse for waiting so long. I mean, there are a **_**ton**_** of reasons why I haven't written lately, but none seem good enough now to justify putting off this story for such a long period of time. Truth is, I took kind of a break from this site. I got really sick for about a month, and I wasn't able to read or review (which was virtual **_**torture**_**!), let alone write. After I got better, I was occupied with oh...high school graduation, full-time work, and leaving for college...and I discovered (which I kind of became obsessed with). My time was just completely taken up with other things, and I even lost the internet for a little while (I couldn't figure out how to get access in my dorm room, and then my laptop broke!) Anyway, I sorta lost my enthusiasm, and even my confidence, for writing...I looked back at all my stories, and wasn't so sure that I had the energy (or talent) to continue. For some reason, I no longer thought I could do it, do any of my stories justice, or compare to all you other brilliant writers out there. I've just recently ventured back to this site (I guess a love of fanfic never leaves you), and I realized how much I not only misssed writing, but how much I missed all of you! I'm SO, SO SO sorry for making you wait...and I understand if no one even bothers to read any further - I hate writers like me, and I can't believe I've become one...**

**So I've finally decided to update...I promise I will try and be better (something tells me my passion is coming back), but I can't be sure about anything...not only is this a new thing for me now, but I also have a completely new schedule with college classes and an on-campus job. Again, I feel awful about putting this off for so long, and hope you guys can forgive me! Here's the next chapter, and I can only hope that I write it well...I'd love feedback, it's really the only thing that keeps me going. Thanks for reading, everyone!**

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Dean's eyes widened, slowly wandering over to Sam's own. As if acting on a silent clue, both hunters bolted. The whirring of the chainsaw became louder, which could mean only one thing: the crazed killer was getting closer.

"RUN!"

Sam's long legs helped him quickly vault over the fallen log, though he stumbled a bit as he reached the other side. He reached across the dead tree with outstretched arms, grabbing Dean's balmy hands and literally dragging him over the rough wood.

"Ouch, dude...careful with the merchandise..." grunted the eldest hunter, as he expertly shouldered his guns and swung his legs around the log. Once across, he took a position beside Sam, pausing a moment – gun at the ready – and scanned the dark trees for signs of the evil creature.

"Dean, are you _insane_?" screamed Sam, raising his voice so Dean could hear him over the loud noise of the chainsaw, "If we follow this trail, we'll eventually hit a right turn that will let us go full-circle, back to the main road!"

"We're here to hunt this thing, Sammy!" roared Dean, not yet ready to flee the hunt. "Dude, we're armed, we're - "

Dean cut his sentence short upon seeing the full materialization of the thing responsible for the sound of the chainsaw. The rest of this thought was "we're ready" – but in that moment, the young hunter realized that "ready" was the last thing he and Sam were. Damn that kid all to hell, Sammy had been right about doing more research into the case before walking right into it. They had no idea what they were truly up against.

Standing at least seven feet tall, the towering figure was nothing more than a black silhouette; the only thing clearly visible through the shrouding blackness being steely, grey eyes. Oh and of course, one long, scabbed hand emerging from the side of what was possibly a ghostly cloak, clutching a very real looking chainsaw.

Steely grey eyes. Not exactly the signature sign of a demon. Red, yellow, black...sure. But grey? Not so much.

Dean didn't stop to consider this interesting turn of events, though. He turned on his heel and started running, following in Sam's wake. The ground was muddy, and his feet – clad in heavy boots – sank in with each stride, greatly slowing his speed. Already covered in mud from his little spill earlier, he felt like he was being weighed down by a thousand pounds of force. He was still moving fairly fast, but it just didn't seem fast enough.

Sam had a head start, and being unsoiled by mud and having extraordinarily long legs ensured his speed. He aimed his feet for rocks at every tread, attempting to avoid the sinking soil, and glanced back at Dean every couple of seconds to make sure they were still together.

"Dean!" he called back, "Still with me?"

"Barely, Sam," he gasped. Dean then paused, noticing for the first time that the chainsaw's whirring had stopped. Sam slowed as well, turning to face his brother.

"It stopped," Sam commented.

"Nice observation, Sherlock," replied Dean. Looking around in curiosity, he realized that they had been led to a somewhat of a clearing. While there were no trees, the ground was still covered in twigs, rocks, and various types of debris. He turned back and faced the direction from which they had come; which now looked like a mass of tangled vines and branches. This was the first clearing they had come across. Strange.

Sam seemed to have thought the same thing. "We haven't come across anything like this yet, right?"

"Kinda hard to remember, what with all the running from a psycho with a chainsaw, but...nope, don't think so." He winced as he tried to catch his breath, hands on his knees.

"And that girl...Riley...he led her to where he wanted her. To the log."

"Yep." said Dean. He didn't like where this was going.

"So...he wants us here?"

Dean raised his eyebrows, and began jogging to the edge of the clearing, back to the woods. "We sure aren't _staying_ then Sam, come on!"

Sam thought for a second, then quickly followed his brother. "There's a turn in the path about 3 miles ahead," he called up. "If we can find it, it leads to the main road...then we can follow that back down to the car and get the hell outta here – figure out what this thing is."

"Sounds awesome to me," yelled back Dean, still a few feet ahead. "Be on alert Sammy, that thing is still - "

All Sam heard was a crash, and then nothing.

"Dean! DEAN!" Sam felt his blood run cold – his brother had disappeared.

"DEAN! Where are you?" He paced frantically around the area, until he came to the edge of a deep, dark hole.

Oh God. He quickly got to his hands and knees, throwing his pack and weapons on the soft ground and cupping his hands over his mouth. "DEAN! Are you down there? DEAN!"

**oo00O00oo**

"Umph..." Dean slowly opened his eyes, and was surprised to find that it made no difference – it was still just as dark as before. Had he passed out? Where the hell was Sam? He blindly felt the earth around him, and was slightly disgusted to feel that whatever he was sitting on was slimy and wet...and cold. Just great...muddy, wet leaves that had surely fallen with him, That evil sonofabitch had built a trap, captured him like an animal.

Thank God the thing had passed on the wooden stakes, that wouldn't have been pleasant.

He tried to stand – and instantly discovered that was a bad idea. Excruciating pain shot up his body, and his leg...his leg...it felt like fire. Gasping from the pain now, and almost scared to investigate the source, he scooted across the makeshift floor until his back was leaning against the dirt wall of the hole - and cautiously reached down with his hand to what he was sure what must be a heck of a wound on his leg.

Wincing, he was unsurprised that his fingers left the site covered in something warm and sticky...but that wasn't what had worried him. Silent tears running down his face, he blindly reached back down again to touch the injury – and this time, what his fingers felt was unmistakable.

Bone, penetrating through his skin.

Laying his head back hopelessly and feeling the area around him begin to spin, he thought he heard the faint sound of someone calling his name..._Sammy_...

**oo00O00oo**

Sam stood up, feeling the panic start to set in. What was he supposed to do now? He cursed as he realized that, of all the things Dean had thrown him from the truck of the Impala earlier that day, rope hadn't been one of them. He could try cutting lose a vine to lower himself down, but he doubted there was one long enough...and there were no trees in the area to secure it on.

He should leave. Try to get help. He had a small map folded in his pocket, and was fairly sure that he could find the clearing again if need be. Local park rangers shouldn't recognize them, as long as the cops didn't get involved everything would be fine. They were far enough away from the crime scene now that the rangers wouldn't likely believe them trespassers.

Okay. Things were going to be fine. Sam took a couple of deep breaths, remembering that panic was never a good thing. Keeping a cool head is the number one rule in the time of a crisis.

He just tried to forget the fact that Dean hadn't answered his calls – because, if Dean had heard them and hadn't answered, that would indicate that something was seriously wrong.

Dean always answered back.

But this time, a chainsaw answered instead.

**TBC**

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**I really hope this didn't suck! And I know it was kind of short, but I'm still trying to get re-used to this writing this again.**

**Again, a BIG sorry to all of you. If you're still with it, please leave a review. I want to know that you're all still here! **


	4. Chapter 4

**This was a bit quicker. Thanks SO much to everyone who reviewed, and even to those silent readers out there – it really means a lot to me that you've continued to stick with it! So I have the next chapter...not sure if I like it or not, but would love to hear feedback! I'll send you candy!**

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Sam froze. Tentatively, feeling the utter terror slowly paralyzing his body, he looked up from the deep black hole into which Dean had fallen – and into the harsh, piercing grey eyes of a familiar, shrouded black figure. Eyes widening and mouth agape, he stumbled backwards, frantically reaching for the shotgun as he attempted to gain distance between himself and the demon-like creature. His back hit a tree at the edge of the clearing, and Sam took advantage of the stability this supplied his body by slowly standing up against it; all the while, shakily loading rock salt pellets into the gun.

If it was loud before, the roar of the chainsaw was deafening now. Saying nothing, the figure slowly advanced toward Sam, chainsaw held higher with each step.

Sam raised the rifle, trying hard to maintain a steady aim. He fired three shots in quick succession, but the creature simply flickered out of sight to avoid the hits, re-appearing a split-second later even closer in proximity than before...and moving at an even greater speed.

Great. The thing could avoid bullets.

He was just making it angry.

Genuinely scared now, Sam tried to run. He was at the wrong end of the clearing; if he was going to find help for Dean, he needed to bolt all the way across and find the trail he had seen on the map, way up ahead. No way was he killing this thing, not now. He still had no idea what it was.

Running was the only option, but it seemed so inadequate a solution now. Riley had run, and was still slaughtered.

But he had to try. The youngest Winchester edged to the left, gradually letting go of the tree he was leaning against and sliding to the side...trying to go around the evil creature.

The black figure disappeared. And Sam ran for it. Taking long strides and panting out of both terror and exhaustion, he focused his line of vision on the other end of the clearing; the barrier of trees and bush that indicated the start of the forest, and the continuation of the trail he had to follow.

Focus. Stay strong. He had to come through, not just for himself, but for Dean. Dean, who had saved him more times than he could count...and who now needed Sam to save him.

Something he was all too willing to do.

"NICE TRY, STUPID BOY," boomed a low, deep voice.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks, sweat beading across his forehead and heart thudding wildly in his chest.

Right in front of him stood the demonic creature, advancing quickly toward him with the raised chainsaw – too close now to make running an option; no more than five feet in front of him. The strong, pungent odor of sulfur filled Sam's nostrils and made his eyes tear, and the awful roar of the chainsaw deafened him. He raised the rifle yet again, his dad's voice echoing in his ears. "If you're going down, son, don't go down without a fight."

Hell, maybe he'd hit the thing this time, at least slow it down, If it was actually a demon, the salt wouldn't do crap – but Sam had suspicions that this thing was something else entirely. There were too many inconsistencies in its behavior when compared to characteristic patterns of a true demon.

If they were too close for Sam to escape, maybe they were too close for whatever in hell this creature was to escape as well.

Gulping and watching the slow approach of the cloaked figure, Sam waited for the opportune moment to fire.

The gap slowly closed between them. Two feet now – time to -

Sam's blood ran cold when he watched the reaction of the creature. The chainsaw had risen to full height in almost a blink of the eye.

Time to -

Sam fired, and, as if in slow motion, he watched as the bullet left the barrel – hitting the creature square in the chest. He was right. This close together, the thing didn't have time to vanish like it had before. A terrible roar left the mouth of the creature, mouth widening to reveal yellowed and rotting teeth.

In horror, Sam realized that the thing – though flickering and surely about to disappear – definitely wasn't doing it fast enough. The chainsaw was still running, and dropped suddenly and abruptly as its holder writhed, no longer able to keep the dangerous weapon raised. Sam's arm, still outstretched after aiming the gun, was directly underneath the saw's path of travel.

With a yell, Sam quickly pulled it back, but not in time to escape being hit. The chain grazed the surface of his arm, and with the sickening sound of resistance, tore an initial chunk of flesh where it first met the surface; then created a trail of cut skin down the arm until the weapon finally rose and stopped its destruction as its wielder vanished.

Sam cried out and grabbed his wound – first instinct being to quench the flow of blood by applying pressure. His eyes filled with tears, a dry sob escaping his mouth as his opposite hand became drenched in warm, sticky liquid. The pain was unbearable, though he knew that as long as he stemmed the blood loss, he should be fine – it was mainly a superficial wound. Extremely lucky, seeing as it was inflicted by a chainsaw – had his arm been raised a couple more inches, it would have been bye-bye arm.

Although in these woods, it could become easily infected. Which wasn't at all a superficial problem.

Crap. He looked around frantically – he couldn't afford to stay there, as the thing was sure to return soon; but this wound was also something that required attention. He took off his canvas jacket, now soaked in blood on the right sleeve, and then removed his t-shirt from underneath; using the shirt as a sort of tourniquet to wrap around his arm. He then tried tearing the jacket sleeve at the seam, since now he couldn't fit his wrapped arm in the canvas confines of the jacket – and wasn't too keen on that idea anyway, since the fabric was soaked in his blood. He winced as he put the jacket back on…having to contort his mangled arm behind his back hurt like a bitch.

And no way could he zip it back up, not with one hand.

He must look great, wearing an unzipped, torn jacket with one sleeve, no shirt underneath, and a completely bloody t-shirt wrapped around his arm. More like a twisted version of Indiana Jones.

At the moment though, Sam didn't care. He needed to get out of there, before the attacker returned.

He began to run, arm burning as he did so and immediately beginning to bleed again. Awesome.

In a couple of seconds, the hole that Dean had fallen into came into focus; and Sam crouched down beside it, ready to try a second time to get a response from his brother before he left to find help.

And before the evil creature came back.

**oo00O00oo**

Dean groggily opened his eyes.

Whoa...trippy...it was just as dark as when he had them shut...

He vaguely recalled thinking the same thing before. When was before? Where was he? His head was spinning, and his body had started to shake.

It was cold in here.

But why was he sweating?

Mmm...he was so tired...sleep sounded nice...

Shifting his body to get more comfortable against the dirt wall, a pain like which he had never known paralyzed him.

He let out a scream, immediately reaching down to the source of the agony, blind, grasping hands meeting bone protruding from his leg.

Now he remembered. He was trapped...he fell...broke his leg...chainsaw creature...Jesus, he must be losing it. Fever, delirium. He had learned enough from his father to know that any injury becomes worse in the wilderness, and when the skin was broken and bone protruded, infection was sure to follow.

Wincing, he shakily positioned his leg so it pointed straight ahead, trying to stabilize it. He had nothing to wrap it with, nothing that wouldn't just make the infection worse – he had fallen in the mud earlier, and was completely covered in the stuff.

Son of a bitch.

He leaned his head back, completely at a loss – he doubted he'd ever been in a more hopeless situation.

As he closed his eyes, he started hearing faint cries.

Sammy? Was he imagining it?

"DEAN!"

It was him. Sammy…thank God…

"SAMMY!"

**oo00O00oo**

As Sam bent down, he heard a bloodcurdling scream come from the black hole.

Dean. Oh God.

"DEAN!" he cried. The relief at hearing his brother's voice was marred by knowing that he was, no doubt, severely injured.

"SAMMY!" Sam could tell Dean had screamed his name back, but the reply – once it hit his ears – was still somewhat faint, shaky and even unsure.

"Dean! Are you okay?" Sam bent closer to the hole, heart thudding in his chest.

There was a pause, and then a wavering reply that Sam had to strain to hear. "I'm pretty messed up, Sammy."

Sam stiffened. "What? Dean, tell me what's wrong, now!" He didn't have much time after all; he had to get of there…

"Broke my leg…bone through the skin…" Pain laced every syllable, and Sam gulped. This was bad.

"Okay…do you have anything to wrap it with?" yelled down Sam – knowing, even as he asked, what the answer would be.

""No Sam…covered in mud, ya jackass…"

"Uh…Sam glanced down at his arm, wrapped in the only clean shirt he had. Now covered in blood, it wouldn't be of any use to Dean.

"Just hang in there Dean! I'm gonna get help, okay?"

"Okay…Sam…you all right?"

Sam bent his head back in disbelief. Truth was, he wasn't sure if he was okay – the wound burned like hell, and his vision was becoming blurry. Not to mention the fact that he was scared out of his mind of whatever that thing was returning, starting to doubt that there really was a trail up ahead that led to the road, and worried sick about his brother. But Dean – God, no way was he letting him know he was injured, the guy would just worry and completely forget his own injuries. That's the way it had always been, ever since they were kids.

No, no way. Sam was taking charge of this one. Why did Dean always feel the need to protect him? He never understood that Sam felt just as strong a desire to do the same, it just never occurred to him. Jeez, they both had such screwed psyches.

"I'm fine Dean, just worried about you now! Listen, I can't really hang around now – just stay there, I'll get you out of this."

"_Stay there_?" Dean quoted. "Not going anywhere Sam, that's sorta the problem..." called up Dean.

Sam groaned. "Whatever, Dean...I'll be back, okay?"

Dean nodded to himself, leaning back and shutting his eyes. "Okay, Sam," he said, hopefully loud enough for his brother to hear. He heard rusting up above him as Sam left; feeling more alone now than ever.

He had tried to put on a strong veneer for his brother – threw some humor in for good measure, anything to stop his brother from worrying about him. He purposely didn't mention the fact that his head was swimming...that he was positive he had a fever, and that a few moments ago had completely forgotten where he was and what had happened.

Sam shouldn't worry about him anyway, that wasn't his job. It was Dean's.

And Dean thought he heard a trace of pain in Sam's voice.

Despite what was best, he felt himself starting to worry. _Sammy_...

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**You know my spiel. Reviews please!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm sorry about the wait for this chapter, guys...school has been hectic, and I was really busy during Thanksgiving weekend. Plus, for some reason, this chapter took absolutely **_**forever**_** to write! There's been many times when I've wanted to update, but it just wasn't ready – I hope you aren't disappointed! Thanks so much for all the reviews, I really appreciate all of you that continue to read my little story! **

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Dean's leg was getting worse. Sure, he couldn't see it in the darkness, but the steady ascension of pain shooting up his thigh and traveling through his entire body seemed to be an accurate indicator. He imagined that, were the wound visible to him, it would currently be oozing pus from the edges, and the surrounding skin would be red and inflamed. He had seen too many similar injuries in the past, been too educated on the dangers of such a wound by his father, to disregard the whole thing as superficial. Infection could put his life in danger just as much as an overtly bleeding stab or gunshot wound. It was the stealth killer. In addition to the dangers of such an infection was the nagging memory Dean had of something John had told him in the past. Snapped bones can release marrow into the bloodstream. There had been a hunter years back who had resisted a trip to the hospital after breaking his leg, deciding to instead fashion a makeshift cast in true outdoorsman fashion...and who had died days later after released marrow had traveled through his system and stopped his heart.

It was an extremely rare occurrence, but it wasn't unheard of. Sitting alone in a dark cave only allowed an already delirious Dean to mull over such dark thoughts and possibilities, nothing else available to occupy his wandering mind. These dark thoughts often led to Sam.

Dean knew he was being unreasonable, crazy even. He could blame the delirium, but for some reason that didn't seem right. He knew it, he just knew it, that something was wrong with Sam.

There was nothing to base the feeling on. Nothing, of course, other than his gut feeling. Dean knew when his brother was in trouble, knew how to pick up on the slight indicators in Sam's voice and the tiny hitches in his tone that signified waves of pain. It wasn't as if Dean had no experience in guessing such things. The two brothers had been injured more often than any person ever should, and constantly tried to hide their pain from the other in some twisted attempt not to draw attention or sympathy.

What was with that, anyway? Dean started to wonder.

What was wrong with showing pain? Had their dad screwed them up to such a point that pain, in both of their eyes, symbolized weakness?

Dean laid his head back against the dirt wall of the hole, random memories of his childhood flooding his brain.

_"Work through it, Dean!"_

_"Come on, son! Keep going!"_

_"Don't let that sonofabitch get away just because you fell!"_

He couldn't blame his father. They had killed all sorts of evil in their lives, evil that may have persisted had they stopped to nurse their wounds. But then again, there was something inherently wrong with telling an eleven year-old that a bleeding head wound must be ignored as they fought a poltergeist. Saying that, after all, there were more important things than his discomfort.

Such as Sam's. Sam's discomfort was of the utmost importance to Dean. It wasn't as if Sam was any different than the other two Winchesters in wanting to hide his pain, but it was that he had someone to care. Their father loved them, sure, but in his obsession with hunting that emotion was sometimes lost, not felt very often by his young boys. Sometimes Dean was jealous that Sam had always had someone to truly take concern and care for him, someone that didn't downplay his feelings, emotions, or pain. But that jealousy was always put out of mind as quickly as it entered, replaced with the unerring need to stay in the position of Sam's rock, his protector.

It wasn't important that Dean had never had that figure himself growing up. It was only important that Sam always did.

And now, even as the roles were being reversed and Sam had proven just as steady of a rock and a support system on many different occasions, Dean still felt the same way. Sam was more important, that was just the way it was.

And Sam, at this moment, might be hurt.

No, Sam _was_ hurt.

Dean just knew it.

**oo00O00oo**

Sam cursed to himself as sharp branches and thorns cut into his arms and legs, Sweat dripped into his eyes, for not only was it incredibly hot, but he had been running steadily for at least two hours.

He must have read the map wrong. The turn-off he had been looking for was supposed to be two miles ahead, the one that led to the road that ran beside the forest that would take him back to the beloved Impala. The road that meant help to Dean. But he didn't dare slow down to consider the situation. The chainsaw creature, or whatever the hell they wanted to call it, was still out there, completely bent on killing him.

But so far, he hadn't seen it since the incident at the clearing. Remembering the previous run-in, Sam automatically gripped his arm, which was still coated in blood, but that had stopped steadily bleeding. For some reason, though, the pain had dimmed. Was it the sulfur that coated the injury? Sam knew that sulfur was commonly considered a healing agent for wounds, but not for anything this serious. It was used to treat rashes and small cuts, not deep gashes.

But who knew, maybe the sulfur would prevent infection.

Then again, what sense did it make for the sulfur, added by the weapon itself, to help heal the wound? Maybe Sam was just being hopeful, non-realistic. It had been hours, he may have just grown accustomed to the pain.

It didn't matter, anyway. He'd live.

There were more important things at the moment, like finding his way out of the cursed woods. He supposed he could consider himself lucky that he hadn't had any run-ins so far with the evil creature, but when he thought more about it, that fact worried him more than anything. Why hadn't it come to find him?

It wasn't as if the thing was going to give up, defeated by a simple rock salt shot to the chest.

And it also wasn't as if the thing couldn't find him if it wanted to. Sam couldn't run fast enough to hide; this creature owned the forest.

So where was it? Sam allowed himself to stop, the first time he had done so since he left Dean. He hadn't felt comfortable in doing so earlier, but now that so much time had passed without incident, he figured he needed a break** – **time to recover and to plan on his next move. Plus, since he hadn't found the turn-off, he had no idea when the next opportunity would come for a rest.

Hands on his knees and panting, he looked down at his wounded arm. The shirt he had wrapped around the limb was now completely soaked, and had begun to drip into the soil below; he could smell the coppery scent of his own blood, a fact that made him feel fairly nauseous. He realized now why the injury hadn't hurt much earlier. While running, he hadn't been thinking about it...panic had been coursing through him, a state of mind most always oblivious to anything else. But now that he had stopped and allowed himself to truly look at the wound, the pain seemed to explode.

Sam wished he could re-wrap it, but there was nothing with which to fashion a proper tourniquet.

He looked around the woods briefly, needing a place to sit down** – **he was currently in the middle of the path, and even though there really wasn't any hiding from the creature, it couldn't be wise to stand out in the open as he was. He walked a few paces off the trail, not willing to venture too far into the deep woods for fear of getting lost, but just taking a few paces into the denser brush. Rifle held at the ready, Sam slowly headed for a large tree, turning his back to the trail to reduce visibility** – **and then sat on the earthy ground in front of it, resting his head on the rough bark of the tree trunk.

Sighing, Sam held his bleeding arm out in front of him. He needed to un-wrap the shirt, if only for a couple of minutes, too see the state the gash was in. He hadn't really had much time earlier to gauge its severity.

He clenched his teeth in preparation for the pain that was sure to come, fingers finding the end of the t-shirt and quickly unraveling it. The first layers were easy, but as the fabric left was in closer proximity to the bleeding cut, the fibers began to stick to the wounded surface. Wincing, Sam pulled the final layers of fabric from his injury, ignoring the warm tears creating paths down his dusty face.

Finally, the wound was unwrapped. Sam let out a final groan, panting deeply and leaning back against the tree. He gulped, whimpering slightly, before he finally looked down at the chainsaw-inflicted gash on his arm.

It wasn't pretty. Though it was oozing slightly, it was no longer openly bleeding. Starting just above the joint of his elbow, the cut had forged a trail down the majority of his arm, ending just before his wrist. The initial gash above the elbow was the area that caused Sam the most concern. A full chunk of flesh had been torn away from the chain's first penetration of the skin, and a small glint of white underneath the layers of torn muscle and ligament signified that the cut had nearly hit bone. An inch or two more, and his arm may have been lost. Though severe, this deep part of the wound did not encompass the majority of the injury. Sam had pulled his arm away at the onset of the attack, causing the depth of the cut to decrease. Two more inches down his arm, past the elbow, the wound was a mere few centimeters in depth, with a width of about an inch and a half. Though this part bled heavily, it was not much cause for worry.

The skin surrounding the wound was torn uncleanly, purplish near the more severe sections and a dark, deep red around the majority. And sure enough, a light, powdery substance coated the edges. Sulfur.

Upon closer observation, Sam realized that he may have been right about his previous theory regarding the beneficial qualities of the chemical substance. It wouldn't help to heal the wound, but he realized that it just may have decreased the swelling. There was a minimal amount of pus, and though the surrounding area was mildly inflamed, it could have been much worse, considering the circumstances.

Huh. So maybe he was a little lucky. Regardless, the wound needed to be re-wrapped; no longer to stop the bleeding, but rather to prevent any foreign, unclean substances present in the forest from entering. Grunting as he attempted to work with his one free hand, Sam flipped the bloody t-shirt over, using the other side as the base to cover the injury. It was no less soaked in blood, but it lacked the hardened, sticky residue that had coated the opposite side of the shirt, gained from being pressed directly to the oozing gash. He wished there were a stream close by, as fresh water would do wonders in cleaning up the bloody injury.

But he didn't see one. Maybe he wasn't so lucky after all.

Sighing at the realization, Sam's mind moved on to other things** – **to Dean. To the entire situation they had both found themselves in. Why had the creature felt the need to trap his brother in the underground hole? What purpose did it serve? Was he planning on coming back, or did he just want to separate the boys?

Were they both part of some plan? And if so, why hadn't the first victims been targeted in the same way? He hadn't played with Riley or Matt, hadn't let them loose for hours or trapped one of them for seemingly no motive.

So why them? Why all the effort when he could just kill them now? What was this thing?

Head swimming these questions, two much more important ones entered his mind.

How was he going to get of here to help Dean?

Was Dean still alive?

It was this thought, more than all other questions, that spurred Sam back into running.

He had no idea now where he was going, but he couldn't stay here.

Dean needed him.

**oo00O00oo**

Sam had been gone for a long time.

Or Dean thought it must have been a long time. He really had no idea how long he had been sitting in the hole, but it felt like forever.

Strangely, Dean had forgotten the pain. Long ago, actually. It was like his body had detached himself from his brain or something.

Nothing felt real, besides his dreams.

He fell asleep for short intervals, always jolting awake crying his brother's name. Each time this happened, he could vaguely remember the haunting dreams that had caused him to do so; all dreams of the times he had failed his brother. He had screwed up this time, not looking enough into the case and just jumping in, guns blazing** – **guilt racked his body for putting Sam in such a dangerous situation. His little brother was now out, all alone, likely injured and on the run from some chainsaw-wielding demonic bitch, all because Dean didn't have the patience for research.

Guilt always made him re-live past moments in his life where he had screwed up, almost like self-inflicted punishment so that he'd never forget that he was at fault for the situation.

_He was ten years old. He was bored. Dad had been gone, and he was in charge. Take care of Sammy, Dean. Shoot first, ask questions later. Dean resented being commanded like that, resented that he had to do what should be his dad's job. Sam had taken the last of the Lucky Charms. Dean's portion of the Lucky Charms. He was angry. He would be fine, he just needed time alone. Sam would be okay, he was asleep. Besides, the arcade was right there. He went. When he got back and peeked through the door, the Shtriga was attempting to feed off a sleeping Sammy, sucking out his essence through his mouth. He fumbled with the shotgun, shakily taking aim. But he couldn't shoot. Then John was there, yelling. His dad shot, saved Sammy. And never looked at Dean the same way again._

_He had left. And he couldn't shoot. Sam almost died._

_He was running back into Sam and Jessica's apartment, the sound of fire roaring in his ears. Sam was screaming, yelling desperately. Dean burst through the bedroom door, illuminated by an orange glow, and grabbed his brother, forcibly pulling him from his suicidal position on the bed below, and glancing up toward the ceiling as he did so. Jess was burning._

_Dean hadn't gotten there in time, and Sam had been broken._

_Dean had left Sam, just for one minute. He had to go to the bathroom, Sam could wait outside. He walked back to the parking lot, expecting to see his little brother perched in the passenger seat of the Impala, but Sam was nowhere to be found. He had been kidnapped._

_Dean hadn't been there, and Sam had nearly been killed._

_Dean had wanted a burger, with extra onions. And pie, he needed pie. Sam could get it, Dean didn't feel like getting out of the car. Then the radio died, he couldn't get a signal. He looked to the windows of the tiny diner, and saw no people inside. Panicked, he ran in, gun drawn. Dead bodies with slit throats littered the room. Sulfur coated the door frame. And Sam was gone._

_Sam had been abducted by a demon, and he had been killed. Dean hadn't gotten there in time._

The last dream had Dean awake in an instant, in a cold sweat. It was the worst memory he possessed, one that still caused him to shake as he recalled the sensation of holding his dead brother in his arms, having failed him yet again.

Now Dean had a year to live, and he'd do it again in a flash. It was his job to save Sam, why should it be reversed this time? Why should Sam risk himself to save Dean, when all Dean had done was fail Sam...over and over and over again?

Dean felt a tear slip down his face as he thought of Sam's possible fate, thought of the fact that he knew Sam was injured. He let out a deep, shaky breath and felt the room start to spin as he again lost consciousness.

**TBC**

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**Sorry guys, I know this chapter lacked action or direction – its purpose was just really to get into the mindset of each of the brothers, what they're each thinking...the next chapter is going to be much more exciting, I swear! Please, please review! **

**A/N - The whole sulfur as a healing agent thing...I actually researched that, and it's true! It helps to decrease swelling and to heal certain injuries. **


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm an awful person. I really, really am. If anyone, by some slim chance, is still actually reading this – you have my eternal gratitude. Because seriously, I don't expect anyone to have to put up with my terrible update times! If you're frustrated, I don't blame you. I would be too. I have no good excuse other than being a busy college student with a job, a partying roommate, and very limited free time. I have been keeping up with the stories I'm following, though, because so far I've found it more important to continue to provide reviews to those who deserve them than to update this story – which actually, guys, I'm beginning to dislike – instead. I'm not saying I hate this fic, just that I could have done a lot more to improve it and make it flow better.  
**

**I've actually found a few inconsistencies that I'm dying to fix, but I don't really have the time for that...just gotta work with what I have, I guess! I don't want to depress anyone, I think I'm sorta bringing down the mood here...I'm actually really happy with my life, just really busy! THANKS so much to everyone who continues to read this, your reviews and constant support are the reason why I'm making myself update now. And haha, from now on I'm either sticking to oneshots or completely writing out the story ahead of time, so hopefully no more long updates in the future *smiles sweetly* And oh, I may just include everyone's favorite character in this chappie! You know, the one that starts with a "B"... Hope that's a good enough apology...**

**So again, I truly AM sorry...and without further ado, here's the sixth chapter! Please R&R to let me know you're still here...although I don't blame you if you're not. But wait, I guess if you're reading this, that means you ARE here...whatever. I'm tired.**

**(By the way, this is sort of a really early season 3 fic - after the deal, but before major episodes later this season; so no real spoilers other than for season 2.)**

* * *

Sam was freaking out. While the absence of the chainsaw-wielding demon-like creature should have made him happy, in reality it was just placing an ominous cloud over the entire forest. There was an air of expectation and doom all around him, and a creepy silence throughout the entire area. He couldn't hear any birds chirping, any twigs breaking from the step of an animal, not even any leaves rustling in the wind. It was like he was all alone in his hopeless quest out of the woods** – **all the other creatures had somehow sensed the evil and either hid, or left, long ago. Animals had an innate sense of danger, like a sixth sense just inherently present in their makeup. Sam couldn't help but wish that humans were so lucky...he and Dean might very well not be in this situation if they could have anticipated the impending doom that would come with entering the forest.

His arm was now numb.

Sam supposed this was a good thing, at least for the present moment, but nonetheless a fairly bad indicator of the severity of the injury. The point when the body begins to block pain through natural painkillers is usually a bad sign.

But it did help him concentrate on the mission at hand.

Dean was still sitting in a dark and dirty hole in the ground, injured and who knew in what type of mindset. Sam was his only hope for rescue, and he wasn't about to get sidetracked by some meager flesh wound. It wasn't the Winchester way.

He had been trying to run throughout the majority of his trek through the underbrush, but at this point it had become virtually impossible to do so. Even being in excellent shape, his body was in no condition to endure further physical exertion. He was panting hard, lungs burning in their attempt to draw significant oxygen and throat dry and painful from a lack of water. He had drained whatever store of was left about an hour ago, back when he thought he was still somewhat close to the turnoff back to the road. At that point, he should have only had less than a mile to go until the trail that led back to civilization; but he had been hiking an additional hour and had yet to spy his destination. He was at least two miles ahead of where he had wanted to be.

It was safe to say he was lost.

Did he underestimate the distance? He was pretty sure he didn't read the map wrong, but those things were never all that clear.

Even worse of a possibility, did he miss the turn?

Sam blanched at the idea. He couldn't have missed it. He was looking for it, paying attention – it was vital that he found it. It was the only way to safely reach the main road, the only clear-cut path. Veering off to the left at this point in some blind attempt to hit pavement was near suicide, as the woods were simply too dense to have any hope of making it out.

If Sam had missed it, missed his only chance to help Dean, the nearest way back to the modern world, it would mean turning back and hiking two more agonizing miles, not even with any certainty that he'd find the path that he was looking for after doubling back. What if it was now overgrown? No longer there? Turning around could be a devastating waste of time. And he didn't have any time whatsoever.

Sam couldn't believe he was such a friggin' failure. If he and Dean's positions were reversed, Dean would have already found some way out – would've found some way to get them out of the situation. Sam was so eager to fill his brother's shoes, yet once the situation actually called for it he just couldn't step up.

His dad had been right, all those times he chided him as a kid. Sam wasn't tough enough. Wasn't strong enough. _"Why can't you be more like your brother, son?"_

Sam sighed.

_Why can't I?_

Dean was strong. Dean was reliable. Dean knew what to do in times like this. But right now, it was up to Sam. And he just couldn't find the strength. He brushed dripping wet strands of his long brown hair out if his irritated eyes, stopping for a slight second to get his bearings. Placing his hands on his knees, he was slightly chagrined to find them bloody; he had fallen just a little while back on some rocks, and it seemed like he had actually been scraped up pretty badly.

Awesome.

His boots were caked in mud, rubber soles tearing from the leather. They weren't meant for hiking, let alone running through rock-strewn trails. They were just a burden,  
adding additional weight to his overworked legs. Damnit, why didn't he and Dean think to wear sneakers? He winced as he looked down at his wounded arm, not from pain – as it was still mostly numb – but more from disgust. It looked worse than it had earlier. The shirt wrapped around the injury, meant to stem the flow of blood, was now coated in dark brown crust, and there was a slight stench from what Sam hoped to simply be trapped sweat and body odor. He didn't let himself think it was dying tissue. No, he wouldn't go there. It would just freak him out, distract him from what he needed to do. But as he attempted to shift the fabric, trying to stretch it a bit over his arm to let in some fresh air, he found that it was completely adhered to his skin from dried blood and congealed pus.

So that wasn't a good sign.

But what could Sam do about it? Nothing, that was what. Sighing, he tried to assess other injuries he may have had. His bare chest, exposed after he had removed his t-shirt to use as a tourniquet, was dripping blood from a nasty scratch inflicted by a tree branch, a scratch that burned like hell as sweat dripped into the open flesh. He was covered in hundreds of other small cuts, found all over his body, as well as maybe twenty to thirty mosquito bites that itched like none other.

Though not at all happy about his current state, Sam was simply grateful that most everything – besides his arm, of course – was superficial. That didn't change the fact, however, that his body still hurt all over. His muscles protested loudly at the exertion he was submitting them to, and his head felt like it was going to explode. He went in and out of double vision, unsure of whether or not it was caused by a bump on the head he simply didn't remember or from dehydration.

But again, it had to be ignored.

He just had to figure out what to do next, before the demon returned.

**oo00O00oo**

Dean jolted awake with a scream of pain.

Oh God, his leg. Jesus effing Christ, it hurt like a bitch. He bit back tears, not willing himself to openly cry – not too sure why, as he was the only one in this godforsaken hole, but hearing his father's voice echoing in his head; telling him that tears do nothing to fix the pain.

But damnit if he didn't just want to cry anyway. He was horrified to feel a burst from an apparent lesion on his leg; and then the sensation of warm fluid flowing down his skin. Tentatively reaching a shaking and unsteady hand down to his lower extremity to gauge the cause of this new development, as he still couldn't see in the utter darkness, he gasped as he sensed what seemed to be large blisters forming beneath his jeans – which were, by the way, stretched increasingly tighter over his skin. He was also suddenly aware of the fact that his boot was cutting off the circulation to his foot.

Swelling. Crap. If he didn't take off his boot right now, he could completely lose all blood flow to his foot – which would surely mean amputation. No, he couldn't go there. Not an option. But with horror, he began to realize that it wasn't just his foot that had swelled up – but rather his entire leg. Fluid from the infection had built up under the skin, creating pressure as it hit the resistance of his shoe and of his jeans. The pressure had begun to force blood, pus, and fluid from the infection to the top of the skin, creating blisters as they reached the surface; blisters which simply ruptured as his jeans applied pressure to the lesion. Though the bone that had broken through his skin had relieved some of the deadly pressure, the severity of the injury and the confines of his clothing had rendered any relief this fact might bring insignificant.

Dean realized with a jolt that this injury had now crossed over into life-threatening. Not only was he losing blood flow to his leg, which could mean amputation (should he ever get out of this hellhole), but there was so much fluid building up in the extremity that there was a large chance of it entering to his blood stream, travelling to the rest of his body, and potentially killing him.

Though Dean had been weaving in and out of both consciousness and sanity, this jolt of reality brought a moment of lucidity. He needed to get out, to help Sam, to kill this evil sonofabitch – but he still couldn't move. This wasn't right. He needed – _wanted_ – to be out there, fighting the good fight. But Sam was now the one in danger, out there all by himself, simply because Dean had been stupid enough to fall for the damned trap set by the demon.

He was a failure.

**oo00O00oo**

Bobby was worried. Damn those boys all to hell, what was with them trying to bite off more than they could chew? They were both as stubborn as mules, something they had both inherited from their daddy – more by necessity than by inherent nature, as John simply demanded hard work and virtual perfection on the part of his boys. Sure, he loved his sons – more than what was probably healthy, actually – but he sure didn't know how to show it. Those two boys were put through hell from childhood on, and even though John was no longer there physically, he still had an enduring hold on their behavior.

Bobby cursed under his breath as he hung up the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing back and forth through his living room.

He had called both boys nearly ten times in the past two hours, getting their voicemails every time. He had left a message the first time, a somewhat joking stab at their inability to get rid of the thing on time, with a hint of concern thrown in for their well-being. The second time, he hadn't been able to hide the slight tremble in his voice as he asked if they were okay – _"Just call me if you need help, boys. Don't try and tackle too much, recklessness never helped anyone."_ The third missed phone call had left him nearly yelling through the line, more out of fear than his temper. And from that call on, he hadn't been able to leave a message. He just hung up with anger, cursing loudly, as the recorded voicemail message hit his ears.

He had asked those boys if they needed help. He called Dean for an update, to see what was going on, and caught the kid as he and Sam were leaving a diner; they had just heard of a case involving chainsaw murders in the woods somewhere and were going to check it out.

_"You sure you know enough about this case, boy?" Bobby's voice was meant to be casual, though his serious intent and paternal tone were evident._

_"Yeah yeah Bobby, it's small fry. Believe me, me and Sam are just gonna scope it out. Get some fresh air, kill that evil sonofabitch."_

_Then Sam's voice, from the background. "Dean, we're just checking it out, no killing anything today. We don't even know what it is yet."_

_A sigh on the other end of the phone._

_"Dean? What was that? You don't know what you're dealing with, son?" His anger was visibly rising._

_"Calm down Bobby, it's fine. We've got an arsenal here, remember. I think we'll be okay." And damnit if the kid didn't through in a cocky laugh._

_Bobby sighed. He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it. "Just..."_

_"Yeah, yeah. We'll call you if we need help, okay? We're only gonna be a couple of hours anyway, I'll call you later and let you know how it went. Tell ya all the dirty and gruesome details, if that's what floats your boat."_

_"Swear, son? Cause if I don't get a call, I'll have your hide. You're not indestructible, Dean."_

_There was a moment of silence. Bobby knew that Dean respected him; he could only joke for so long. "Yeah, I swear. okay? Just don't friggin' worry, I'm all grown up now."_

_"Alright, well I guess-"_

_"I'll call you later, Bobby. Thanks for offering help, but I've got this one."_

_"Just be careful, son."_

_"You've got it."_

Recalling this conversation, Bobby felt a pit form in his stomach. Dean never went back on his word, especially to him – and especially when it involved a hunt. He could act the smartass all he wanted, but he knew the severity of his job, and the consequences that came with his actions. He always picked up the phone, always called when he promised that he would. Not to mention Sam...the friggin' embodiment of charm and courtesy. He wasn't picking up either.

Damnit.

Bobby was going to Colorado.

Grabbing his jacket, he ran out to his truck, slammed his foot on the gas pedal, and sped from the driveway.

**oo00O00oo**

Sam wasn't ready to turn back. Not yet. He had decided that it was more likely he had just underestimated the distance of the turnoff than he had missed it altogether. Because if he had missed it, that would mean – most definitely – that it wasn't there at all. No way he could have failed to notice a glaring turn from the path, especially when he was looking so concertedly for it. And if it was overgrown, the only other possibility, then there was no point in turning back anyway.

He would just have to keep going; the path had to end somewhere, right?

A bit rejuvenated, completely convinced that the turnoff _had_ to be up ahead, that it just _had_ to be – he began jogging. Then he began running. He didn't know where the energy came from; apparently the human body reacted miraculously under situations such as these...adrenaline was an amazing thing.

However, the thing about running is that it's harder to slow down. And it's easier to miss the dangers that lie up ahead.

Sam didn't see the drop off that the path ended in. The 20-ft high rocky cliff that was waiting for him.

He was running a little too fast, and noticed a little too late.

**TBC**

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**I'm sorry guys – cliffhanger galore, and I don't know when the update will come. *hides from everyone* I swear this is a huge priority to me, but when I say I'm a busy college student...not kidding. I have a 5 page Science research paper, a 4 page English essay, and a 3 page Spanish composition due next week. So I'll be doing a lot of writing, yes, but not the kind that I'd prefer.**


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